


(Can't Take The) Distance

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:59:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s weird, living where Brittany does not, and she thinks sometimes—at night, mostly—that she hates it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Can't Take The) Distance

Title: (Can't Take The) Distance  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Technically none.  
Summary: It’s weird, living where Brittany does not, and she thinks sometimes—at night, mostly—that she hates it.

  
College is weird. Not bad-weird, but still, after years and years in Lima, pretty damn off the charts. She’s still getting used to the stark differences to her old life: the fact that the cafeteria actually closes, and the strangely fluctuating hot water supply, and the amazing amount of free t-shirts that get thrown at her head at every turn. It’s weird, being here in a dorm room, with a girl she didn’t grow up with, never attended cheer camp with, never saw day in and day out at Glee rehearsals, or booty camp, or math class.

It’s weird, living where Brittany does not, and she thinks sometimes—at night, mostly—that she hates it. Even though the classes are cool, and her floormates don’t all morbidly suck, and she’s found four clubs in the past few months to suck up all her free time—she hates it. Sometimes. Because Brittany isn’t here. Brittany, fresh off a just-scraped-by round of summer school, is racking up two semesters at good old community college. Without her.

It’s the first time they’ve been apart in far longer than Santana can remember, and it hurts a fuck of a lot more than she had expected on that sultry August afternoon. She wishes now that she had held Brittany closer in the car, that she had some presence of mind to drag her to the bed and handcuff her to the nightstand or _something_. But she didn’t, because she was trying her very hardest to match Brittany’s brave smile, and the comfortable nature of her kiss, and after an hour of unpacking and brushing long fingers through rumpled dark hair, Brittany had left.

It’s not that they don’t talk every day—every _hour_ , just about, unless Santana is asleep or Brittany is at work—but it just doesn’t feel the same. She catches herself reaching out when a lecture comes to its end, or when she’s standing in the library: always the same motion, her pinky outstretched expectantly. And nothing ever happens, except for the bizarre looks people sometimes shoot her way, because—

Brittany isn’t here. And, until next fall, that isn’t going to change.

She knows, in the hope lining her heart, that they’re going to be okay. That Brittany would never forget about her, and that there’s no way she could ever want someone else. She knows it, because she loves Brittany more than anything, as she always has, but sometimes…sometimes it’s not so easy to remember. Sometimes, the texts aren’t enough, and neither are the typo-ridden letters that come in the mail every other week, their envelopes dotted with glitter and the ominous patchings of gray fur. Sometimes, she just wants to see Brittany, to look her in the eye and feel reassured that her sexy, wonderful, lovely girlfriend is…

Still hers.

She’s trying not to think about all of this on a Friday night as her fingers punch away at the keyboard. Trying and failing—every few lines, she catches herself typing “Pierce” instead of “Petruchio”—but she’ll be damned if this essay doesn’t get written. Her roommate is home for the weekend, and all Santana wants to do is brutally massacre the scroll-long list of assignments waiting for her before Thanksgiving break comes along.

Her nose is less than two inches away from her molding textbook when her computer blips cheerfully for attention. She glances up, brow furrowed; Skype is the main mode of communication for Quinn, but their conversations have hit an awkward lull lately, what with Quinn’s sudden obsession with Mike Chang’s dirty parts.

(Turns out, somehow, riding the Asian Express beats bitchfests with her long-time bestie; the fucking traitor.)

Anyway, Quinn’s pretty much gone off the deep end and landed in a fluffy panda pit, and there isn’t anyone else Santana cares to give her screenname to—no one who would message her at 2 in the morning with a video request.

(Except maybe Puckerman, who likes to get drunk and expose his man-bits on camera, but she blocked his ass last week.)

The name isn’t a familiar one, either way, and Santana can’t think of anyone else in the world who would choose to be called _Cap’n-FluffyDuck69_. Snorting, she strikes the ‘answer with video’ key.

“Really?” she drawls the minute a broad grin and flurry of blonde hair fill the screen. “Cap’n-FluffyDuck?”

“I wanted _Ke$haDanceFiendKittyLips_ , but it told me there already was one of those,” Brittany pouts, leaning forward in her desk chair. Santana laughs, feeling all at once breathless and dizzy as her girlfriend gives a playful little spin.

“You didn’t tell me you fixed your computer.”

“Surprise,” Brittany responds instantly, biting her lip. “Mom got me a new one after I promised to stop playing the Stuff On My Head game with items over a hundred dollars.”

“Good call,” Santana teases, and reaches over to slam her book shut. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Why aren’t _you_?” Brittany draws her knees up to her chest and swivels from left to right. Santana follows the motion with her eyes, smiling.

“Homework weekend.”

“Oh. I can leave you to that, if you’re busy—“ Brittany teasingly shifts as if to end the call. Santana all but lunges toward the screen, hands spread wide.

“God, no!”

“Yeah?” Blue eyes bat at her, coy and adorable even from hundreds of miles away. “Is that ‘cuz you missed me?”

Her heart clenches, her mouth clumsy around a joke that never comes. “Yeah,” she manages, gripping the edge of her desk until her knuckles whiten. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Just kind of?” Brittany’s tongue darts out, eyebrows wiggling. “I _don’t knooow_. Why should I believe you?”

“Because I haven’t seen you in three months and it fucking sucks donkey tits?” Santana replies, the pressure in her chest lessening when Brittany throws her head back and laughs. Long, pale fingers clamp over a pink mouth, Brittany’s eyes going bug-wide.

“Everyone’s sleeping,” she stage-whispers, and with anyone else, Santana would snap, _No shit, Sherlock, it’s 2 in the goddamn morning_ , but for this, she can only smile. Brittany, with her lights off and her pajamas flimsy, hair knotted atop her head, looks totally ready to pass out—but here she is. Not _here_ -here, not the way Santana would like best—within groping distance—but closer than Santana has seen since that depressing Wednesday in September, when Brittany texted to say she'd dropped her Dell down the stairs.

“I really do miss you,” she says, sort of dumbly. The corners of Brittany’s mouth quirk, her eyes softening.

“So much. I would have called you sooner, but Sarah got a new kitten, and Tubbs keeps trying to push her into the microwave. I’ve got kind of a full-time superhero gig here.”

Santana laughs, more relieved than ever to be alone in the room. “Sounds crazy.”

“You’d love it,” Brittany agrees, then pauses and scrunches up her nose. “Except for the not-liking-cats part of you.”

“I like Tubbs okay,” Santana says loyally, and even though they both know she’s lying, Brittany’s eyes light right back up again.

“He misses you, too. I caught him writing poetry last week about ‘dark eyes and careless hair.’ It was either about you, or the mailman.”

“That’s a Jewel lyric,” Santana tries to point out, but she’s laughing too hard. Brittany sits up straighter, trip-trapping her fingertips across her bare knees and looking deeply proud of herself.

“He’s a 90s kid, no shame.”

Santana gulps for air and leans on one elbow, grinning idiotically at the screen. Brittany is just as she remembers: cheeks freshly scrubbed, hair damp, collarbone sharp in the dim lighting. Beautiful, and cheeky, and silly, and wonderful.

And more than a little sexy, with the swell of her cleavage barely visible beneath her tank top. No bra, Santana notes happily. The nighttime ritual is complete on her end; she could fall into bed at any moment.

Except Santana isn’t _in_ that bed—isn’t remotely dressed for it, even, with her baggy ripped jeans and a long-sleeve shirt that hangs on her like a tent—and _damn_ , if that doesn’t still suck more than anything.

“I wish you were here,” Brittany says suddenly, as if reading her mind. Santana shrugs and struggles not to look miserable.

“Yeah. Me too.”

She wishes, but there’s nothing they can do about it just now. Brittany leans down until her head is pillowed against her arms, and Santana tells herself grudgingly to just grit her teeth and _deal_. This isn’t perfect, isn’t anything like home, but it’s still Brittany, watching her with lidded eyes and a sleepy smile. It’s still Brittany, and it’s the first time she’s seen her face in weeks. It’ll have to do, for now. They’ll just have to make the most of what they have.

She falls asleep mid-conversation, right there on the desk, and dreams of languid kisses and golden hair.

***

She gets almost no homework done the next day, even though Brittany apologetically darts off at eleven for a shift at the studio. The memory of Brittany waiting there on her screen, watching her wake with her usual sweet smile, is too fiercely seared in her head for focus on anything else. That, and the memory of Brittany just before she left: dancing around her room, trip-stumbling in and out of her clothes without a shade of embarrassment. It’s been a long time since Santana has seen that body, lithe-limbed and graceful even when Brittany stepped sideways on a lone sneaker and nearly tumbled end over end for it. Too long, without pert breasts, and eternal legs, and that long line that skids up the dead center of Brittany’s agonizingly flat stomach.

They send pictures sometimes, when _frisky_ doesn’t begin to cover it, and those are not without merit. Still, nothing compares to the real thing moving in real time, Brittany flashing a dark little wink as that shirt slipped over her shoulders and ruined her fun.

Last night, Santana felt unbearably lonely. Today, she can’t seem to go fifteen minutes without rubbing her thighs together and groaning.

Days like this are usually pure torture, especially with Brittany phoneless at work, but her roommate is gone, and…

She gets nothing done—nothing she can cross off her to-do list, anyway—and still, the ache in the pit of her stomach doesn’t fade. Not when she rubs one (or two, or four) out on the bed, or when she blasts her skin with the coldest shower she can manage, and _especially_ not with Brittany texting on her lunch break. The words aren’t even particularly dirty, compared with what they’re used to, but each message sends a shiver down her spine all the same. Brittany tells her she’s beautiful, that she misses sleeping beside her, that she loves the feeling of Santana’s eyes on her skin as she dresses in the morning—

Okay, _that_ one kind of gets her going the way sexts are meant to.

By the time Skype chirps pleasantly, it’s nearly midnight and Santana is nearly crazy. She drags in a shuddering breath and slaps the accept button, doing her very best not to look like a woman who’s been somewhat obsessed with getting off all day long.

Judging from the amused smirk on Brittany’s face, it’s not working as well as she’d like.

“Hi,” she mutters, cheeks flushing lightly. Brittany wiggles two fingers back.

“Hi. Whatcha been up to all day?”

The teasing tone makes it perfectly clear that Brittany knows her too well. Even if she didn't, it would be obvious; Santana can see herself in that tiny little box onscreen, can make out the wild hair and blown pupils that just about _scream_ horny-beyond-help. She bites her lip hard and squirms in her chair.

“You were gone a long time,” she accuses at last. Brittany’s shoulders rise and lower almost carelessly.

“Sorry, family movie night.”

Once upon a time, Santana could never have forgotten family movie night; she’d been there almost every Saturday since the second grade. Family movie night is a frickin’ blast, but right now, she resents it with a destructive amount of force.

“Need you,” she growls, aware that she sounds just a little more helpless than sexy. Brittany arches an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair and plucking at the sleeve of her shirt.

“Santana Lopez. Are you about to be a dirty girl?”

“Shut up,” she groans, reaching down to tug the hem of her sweatshirt up and up. Brittany just grins, like Santana’s pain is actually _funny_ to her. Which is pretty damn cruel, because, hey, Santana never hesitates to send whole friggin’ sext _novels_ when Brittany asks.

And, sometimes, when she doesn’t.

The sweatshirt pulls free, her hair sticking up in brand new directions. Brittany is still grinning, but her bottom lip is partway in her mouth, and when Santana repeats the action with her shirt, it slips between her teeth in full. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.” She flicks the shirt behind her, wincing when something clatters heavily off her dresser. “You going to join me, or what?”

Brittany opens her mouth like she wants to state the obvious—that the distance makes it more than a little hard to just _join in_ —and shuts it immediately. Santana pretends not to notice, not to care; yesterday involved enough lame loneliness over their long-distance relationship, enough of the _missing_. Tonight is all about the perks.

Brittany’s shirt slinks over her head and drops out of frame. She hesitates a moment, then lifts herself onto her knees until Santana can see the waistband of her Cheerio-red sweatpants as they shimmy down her hips. Her teeth clack together unattractively, her breath sweeping in through her nose.

“ _Fuck_ , it’s been a long time.”

Brittany hums acknowledgement and drops back to a sitting position. One long leg rises up and props onto the desk, her shoulders relaxing against the chair. “I’ve missed you.”

“Like crazy,” Santana agrees fervently, flicking at the button on her jeans. Brittany seems so _near_ in this moment, like it wouldn’t take much more than fingers pressed to the screen to reach her, and it somehow makes the heat between her legs pool faster and wetter than ever. Touching Brittany used to be so typical, an everyday occurrence, and now…now it’s this rare treat, expensive and almost too gorgeous to handle without explicit care. Santana can’t believe there was a time she actually might have taken the physical part of their relationship for granted, knowing what she does now.

Her hand drifts down the front of her jeans, pressing to the seam lightly enough to tease. Brittany is running slender fingers down the side of her face, mapping along her cheekbone and jawline the way Santana likes to do in person. Her head tips back, her lips parted; her right hand is invisible, with only the gentle pulse of the muscles in her arm to prove she’s doing anything at all.

It’s proof enough, given the circumstances, for Santana’s breath to cut short. She traces the seam a little harder, her right hand easing up to brush against her nipple. Brittany is watching her silently, barely moving, and when Santana cups her own breast softly, she licks her lips.

“Pinch,” she directs in a low voice. Santana swallows a moan, fingers closing around the soft little nub and tugging until it goes stiff. Brittany nods, her arm jumping just violently enough to be noticeable.

“Lose the bra,” Santana husks, and Brittany does without a word of argument. Her skin is pink in the light from her desk lamp, shining on camera like she’s been crafted brand new for this moment. Santana pushes between her legs with the heel of her hand and hisses, wishing desperately to be in that familiar bedroom, straddling that chair.

“Are you—?” Brittany leaves the question unasked, Santana’s head already swinging recklessly from side to side.

“Just touching. _Ungh_. Rubbing.”

The sigh Brittany releases tells Santana all she needs to know in return. It’s a sound Brittany only makes when she’s tickling just below her navel, nails blunt and gentle as they skate just low enough to spark interest. Brittany is taking this a step at a time, the way Santana likes on lazy afternoons when the rain patters sleepily against the bedroom window.

Her breast is still cradled against her palm, silky and weighted just so; she presses down against it, kneading, imagining it is Brittany’s hand holding her with such care, Brittany’s smooth skin massaging her on. Brittany always knows how to touch her, how to hold her, sensing what she wants before Santana can articulate it. There’s so much to miss about doing this with Brittany.

She gazes at the screen, watching the gentle bob of Brittany’s chest as she breathes, one hand tangled in messy hair. She knows so well how it feels, to have Brittany pressed squarely against her, nipples tight against her chest. She knows the thudding rhythm of Brittany’s heart against her own, how it doesn’t take more than a palm pressed between her breasts to speed that tempo up. Brittany’s body is excruciatingly familiar, a finely-strung violin Santana never quite feels right unless she’s playing.

“Want you,” Brittany tells her bluntly, arching her back and tightening her abs. Santana bites the inside of her cheek, eyes rolling.

“God, why aren’t you _here_?”

“Because I’m here,” Brittany answers, simple and calm even as her breath hitches. Santana takes this to mean her fingers have drifted lower, have begun to tease between her legs in short, thin strokes. Not too fast, probably not even beneath the waistband of her underwear yet. Brittany likes to make it last.

“You should be touching me,” Santana hears herself go on, dragging her nails across her breastbone and up the line of her throat. “You should be kissing me here…and here…”

“I would be.” Brittany whimpers. “Wouldn’t ever stop, if I had the chance.”

Santana hikes her hips into her hand, grinding sharply against her palm. There’s a wet spot growing there on the jeans, one that demands more than this teasing attention. Brittany nods in her direction, clenching a hand in her own hair.

“Take them off. Do it for real.”

“I wish,” Santana groans, standing on trembling legs and wriggling out of the tight denim. The underwear skims down her thighs, and she catches a glimpse of exactly how wet she is. This has been a very, very long day.

“Let me see,” Brittany says before she can sink back down again. “Let me—“

Obedient, Santana parts herself, stretching up on her toes to make absolutely certain Brittany can see the whole picture. Her middle finger swipes a clean path straight down and comes away glistening; Brittany makes a thin little noise, like she can’t remember how to breathe right.

“Good?” Santana teases, feeling a hot burst when the rocking of Brittany’s arm quickens. She kicks free of her jeans and rolls the chair back to give herself more room, finger trailing experimentally across the breadth of her sex.

“Yeah,” Brittany breathes, and makes a little motion with her arm that lets Santana know she’s pushing slowly inside of herself. It’s astoundingly hot, this image of Brittany with one leg propped on the desk, easing her own chair back far enough to give Santana a clearer view. Her underwear are dangling halfway down her legs, her hand buried two fingers deep.

If Santana thought she could handle stopping the motion between her own legs, she’d take a fucking screenshot.

“Hot,” she hisses, cupping herself solidly and all but melting at the friction her hand creates against her clit. “So fucking—you gotta come here, babe. You gotta come visit.”

Brittany whines softly, her hand curling closer between tensing thighs. “Mmhmm.”

“Visit and—“ She can’t think straight enough to form the words, not with Brittany spread like that, her arm jolting in long, deep thrusts. She’s beautiful, fingers plunging in and slipping out again at a rough pace, head lolling back on her neck. Santana pushes past her own entrance, bending her knees slightly and closing her eyes as she adjusts, filling herself and imagining that Brittany is doing it for her.

She rides her own fingers, free hand braced against the desk, and tries to match Brittany’s speed, her rhythm, the needy little moans she’s emitting as she works. Brittany, whose hair is a free-flowing mess, whose eyes never leave Santana as her left hand skids clumsily down her body and grasps her right wrist tightly. Holding herself steady, Santana notes, sucking in a breath, as she pumps deeper. Struggling to find the perfect angle, the one Santana gets every single time.

She imagines it’s Brittany’s body she’s inside, Brittany’s hot, slick walls pulling tight around her and releasing reluctantly. She imagines she can feel the arousal dripping down her hand, evidence that Brittany wants her, loves her, needs her more than anything. Distance doesn’t matter when Brittany needs her; distance amounts to numbers and nothing more. All that counts is the clutch of Brittany’s muscles around her, the distant echo of Brittany’s whimpers and gasps as her hips lift and rock with mounting desperation.

Santana bows to the pressure of her own hand, dragging the heel of her hand in quick circles across her clit, feeling herself shape and spread around her fingers. Her head bends, her lip between her teeth as she makes low noises from deep within her belly. And all the while, there’s Brittany on the screen: canting up into her joined hands, her foot slipping from the desk and landing hard against the floor. Brittany is making the most delicious little _unh_ sound over and over, sounding for the world like she’s aiming to moan Santana’s name and only managing that final syllable on repeat.

Brittany is losing it; everything from the bend of her shoulders to the jerk of her hips announces how close she is, and Santana wants to be in control of this moment, to demand that Brittany come for her, to fuck herself harder and faster until stars go supernova behind her eyelids. She wants to make absolutely _sure_ Brittany knows that the distance can’t get to them, that they _belong_ together, that this is for them and them alone—but the words are lost in her throat, her voice hoarse with the force of her groans, and the best she can do is utter Brittany’s name once in a long, low stutter—

“ _Uh—uh, B-Britt—_ “

She shatters around herself, clenching, coming until the strength melts from her legs and her elbows strike the desktop for balance. Hundreds of miles away, in a bedroom in Lima, Ohio, Brittany tosses her head back and cries out for her. _For her_ , Santana registers, as her fingers slow their thrusts and her body twitches tiredly. It’s always for her.

Distance be fucking well damned.

She’s going to get through this semester, she swears to herself as she wipes her fingers on a tissue and limps to bed with the laptop cradled in both hands. She’s going to get through this semester, and the one after that, and Brittany will be here every night. Waiting for her. Until this stupid distance is finally out of the fucking way.

She sets the computer beside her pillow and collapses, naked and smelling violently of sex, onto the upturned blankets. Through the speaker, she hears Brittany yawn.

“We gotta do that more often.”

“You gotta come _here_ and do that,” Santana mumbles, cracking one eye open. Brittany is tugging a blanket around her shoulders, smiling a satisfied, wavery sort of smile.

“First chance I get,” she promises. Santana grunts into the pillow.

“Good. You, uh…” It’s amazing, how _this_ is the thing that embarrasses her, after cybersexing up a storm. She's such a fucking pussy sometimes. “You gonna stay until I fall asleep?”

“Always,” Brittany says softly.

The last thing Santana is aware of before she drifts into post-orgasmic dreams is the husky strains of “Songbird” trickling through her speakers.  
  



End file.
